Closer to God
by Pass Crow
Summary: 'She wasn't supposed to be in the truck, Ope.' Random little extra tidbits for 'Balm' and 'Service'.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. Kurt Sutter and FX do. Please don't sue me. I also don't own the lyrics to the song 'Closer'. NIN does. Again, please don't sue me. Contains lines from Season 2 episodes, spoilers especially for 'Balm' and 'Service'.**

There were no lights except for stars, the dim burn of them a ghastly sheen across the tall grass. The small doll was clutched in his hands, the body twisted and wet from his sweated palms. He sobbed as she stared at him, her innocent eyes somehow etched against the simple wooden face. The lifeless gaze didn't change, no matter how many times he apologized. He screamed and begged for her forgiveness and as the trip mellowed out and he could think more he explained, the rote and timbre of his voice pleading into the silence.

There was no doubt that she saw him, he blinked and saw her propped against the steering wheel. Gummed bits of tinted safety glass clinging to the blood in her hair. She'd seen him then, marked him in a way none of his other victims had. Because she was his mistake. He'd played with her children, eaten food with her. He carried the weight of her across his back, the weight of the bullets and her husband's grief. The weight of two motherless children. The sheer size of his guilt bent his shoulders and snapped the ice in his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." As the stars faded he rocked back and forth, all his words gone. The doll remained clenched in his fists and the grass was a silent sentry, hiding his weakness.

* * *

**_Help me, I broke apart my insides, help me I've got no soul to sell.  
_****_Help me, the only thing that works for me, help me get away from myself._**

* * *

He didn't know how his mind could be so shaky while his hands remained so solid. His body froze, numbness blanketing him in the long moment it took for the other man's words to register. It was still a hallucination, the entire feeling of the room, the words, the look of pain in his brother's eyes. It was all just—

He blinked as they spoke, a half a dozen indrawn breaths and feeble exclamations of disbelief. Even then nothing registered on his face, the blanked and broken look aging him dramatically. The table was too far in shock to rise in indignation so they sat in near silence, eyes wide and accepting. He couldn't feel his fingers. This wasn't supposed to happen.

"Jesus Clay, I'm so sorry." For a second he didn't know which one of them he was apologizing for and then he thought of Gemma, her dark eyes holding too many secrets. Pain throbbed in his fingers and he realized dully that he was clenching his fists so hard he'd dug crescents into his palms.

* * *

_**You can have my isolation; you can have the hate that it brings.**_  
_**You can have my absence of faith, you can have my everything.**_

* * *

"Sorry, not myself. Been a rough mornin'." He apologized again, voice flat and monotone as he subtly examined her skin for the marks he knew she still carried. Not that she carried them on her skin anymore. The liquor soured in his mouth somewhere between the look in her eyes and the taste of her lips as the kiss lingered a bit too long. There was fire here, just waiting to burn them both.

The warmth of her hand sliding down his torso had the strength of a blow. He went to his knees quickly, another apology painting his lips. The guns were cold in his hands as smooth skin materialized in front of him. Her hands cupped his ears, pulling his head up and against her body. There was a shiver to her fingers, but it disappeared as she threaded into his hair and gripped into the back of his skull. As her hands ran down against the leather of his cut he caught against her legs and ran his nose up the bared skin of her stomach. He froze against her for one second, his eyes clear and needing before he stood and kissed her.

Her tongue was like a blessing in his mouth and he swore it tasted like absolution, like the almost remembered tang of a priest's wafer. His arm slammed into the wall as he pushed her back, fingers spread to absorb the shock. Her thighs parted as he pressed his knee between them. She was silk to his worn leather, her fingers deft as she stripped his cut and shirt open with one motion. He couldn't help the wrenching motion as he pulled her robe open, baring fabric covered breasts. A slight call off her lips shivered his skin but wasn't enough to make him stop.

Their eyes met for a split second, but it was long enough. He undid the belt of her robe and turned her into the wall. With harsh fingers he worked the buckle of his belt and shoved at his pants, frustration quickened his movements and the tie down of his belt caught against his thigh. Trying not to think about how rough he was being he ducked his body so that they were centered together. He was only semi aware of repeated words rushing out with his breath as he thrust against her willing body. Glass crunched under his feet and the sound shattered the calmness in his mind. His forehead ground into her shoulder, the scent of her strong and warm in his nose.

"Jesus! Jesus, what the hell we doin'? What the hell we doin'?" His body was a step behind his mind, the ache in his limbs hot and thick as he stepped away and shook his head. The look in her eyes was unreadable as she pulled her robe together left him to buckle his pants. The motion ached as he watched her walk away.

* * *

_**Help me tear down my reason. Help me, it's your sex I can smell.  
**__**Help me. You make me perfect, help me become somebody else.**_

* * *

With shaking hands he gathered the guns, all too aware that while his mind had taken a flailing grasp on reality his body was taut and unwilling to forget the taste of her skin or the warm wetness of her body. Kneeling there in the hallway with the shattered pictures of her family he pressed the muzzle of one of the guns to his forehead. One motion would calm the clatter in his mind, clear his conscience, hell, clear his skull in less time than it would take to blink. The taste of her was still on his lips. With a broken sigh he dropped the gun back into the hatbox with the others, his hands finally shaking with fine tremors. "Fuck."

She was waiting for him in the kitchen. He settled the hatbox of guns into the table, and spread his palms flat against the cool wood. It took every ounce of will in his body not to turn and grab her when she stepped into him, both hands smoothing up the thick leather lining his back. The kiss she placed beneath the curls on his neck burned like a brand. Pulling a breath he let her fingers tug at him, his lanky body turning into hers.

"Look at me Tigger." The motion of her fingers on his jaw tightened his muscles and drew his look up to hers. Her eyes were steady as she offered him the bottle of liquor she'd lifted off the table. Blinking slowly he took it and swallowed a mouthful against the thickness in his throat. Still holding her look he passed it back, sealing their silence with vodka.

"I'm sorry." The words were ashes in his mouth as he grabbed the bag of guns and turned away.

* * *

**_I want to fuck you like an animal.  
_****_I want to feel you from the inside._**

* * *

He tried to swallow back the words, using the heel of his hand to hold against his jaw. But his body was turning and something was breaking inside. His slipping grip on emotion failed utterly and he asked the question that still haunted his every thought. "Why was she drivin' the truck?" A simple question and a simple answer. But the look in Opie's eyes changed and it was over. The guilt on his face was unmuteable. "She wasn't supposed to be in the truck Ope." Tears rimmed his eyes drawing the blue brighter as Opie stood.

Rough hands gripped into the leather of his cut and shoved him back. Deju vu swept him and he blinked back the memory of the muffled gasp Gemma had given him as her body pressed into the wall. The first punch was what he wanted, the weight of the other man's grief translating into force that made his head swim and his ears ring. Thick silver tore at his skin, letting his blood and guilt out to run down his cheek.

His hands were relaxed as he fell to the ground, his body limp and unresisting. Opie pulled him back up, clenching his hands into black and gray curls. Words he'd thought a thousand times spilled from Tig's mouth and he fractured the already cracked brotherhood of the club. Light glinted in the blood that lined the other man's rings but his eyes remained steady. The pain was as close to absolution as he was ever going to get.

* * *

_**My whole existence is flawed.  
**__**You get me closer to god.**_


End file.
